to the ancients; for the simple reason that they always took a natural
and unprejudiced view of human affairs, and did not allow themselves
to be influenced by any such vicious and abominable folly. A blow
in the face was to them a blow and nothing more, a trivial physical
injury; whereas the moderns make a catastrophe out of it, a theme for
a tragedy; as, for instance, in the _Cid_ of Corneille, or in a
recent German comedy of middle-class life, called _The Power of
Circumstance_, which should have been entitled _The Power of
Prejudice_. If a member of the National Assembly at Paris got a blow
on the ear, it would resound from one end of Europe to the other. The
examples which I have given of the way in which such an occurrence
would have been treated in classic times may not suit the ideas of
_honorable people_; so let me recommend to their notice, as a kind of
antidote, the story of Monsieur Desglands in Diderot's masterpiece,
_Jacques le fataliste_. It is an excellent specimen of modern knightly
honor, which, no doubt, they will find enjoyable and edifying.[1]
[Footnote: 1: _Translator's Note_. The story to which Schopenhauer
here refers is briefly as follows: Two gentlemen, one of whom was
named Desglands, were paying court to the same lady. As they sat at
table side by side, with the lady opposite, Desglands did his best to
charm her with his conversation; but she pretended not to hear him,
and kept looking at his rival. In the agony of jealousy, Desglands, as
he was holding a fresh egg in his hand, involuntarily crushed it; the
shell broke, and its contents bespattered his rival's face. Seeing him
raise his hand, Desglands seized it and whispered: _Sir, I take it as
given_. The next day Desglands appeared with a large piece of black
sticking-plaster upon his right cheek. In the duel which followed,
Desglands severely wounded his rival; upon which he reduced the size
of the plaster. When his rival recovered, they had another duel;
Desglands drew blood again, and again made his plaster a little
smaller; and so on for five or six times. After every duel Desglands'
plaster grew less and less, until at last his rival.]
From what I have said it must be quite evident that the principle
of knightly honor has no essential and spontaneous origin in human
nature. It is an artificial product, and its source is not hard to
find. Its existence obviously dates from the time when people used
their fists more than their heads, when priestcraft had enchained the
human intellect, the much bepraised Middle Age, with its system of
chivalry. That was the time when people let the Almighty not only care
for them but judge for them too; when difficult cases were decided by
an ordeal, a _Judgment of God_; which, with few exceptions, meant
a duel, not only where nobles were concerned, but in the case of
ordinary citizens as well. There is a neat illustration of this in
Shakespeare's Henry VI.[1] Every judicial sentence was subject to an
appeal to arms--a court, as it were, of higher instance, namely, _the
Judgment of God_: and this really meant that physical strength and
activity, that is, our animal nature, usurped the place of reason on
the judgment seat, deciding in matters of right and wrong, not by what
a man had done, but by the force with which he was opposed, the same
system, in fact, as prevails to-day under the principles of knightly
honor. If any one doubts that such is really the origin of our modern
duel, let him read an excellent work by J.B. Millingen, _The History
of Dueling_.[2] Nay, you may still find amongst the supporters of
the system,--who, by the way are not usually the most educated or
thoughtful of men,--some who look upon the result of a duel as really
constituting a divine judgment in the matter in dispute; no doubt in
consequence of the traditional feeling on the subject.
But leaving aside the question of origin, it must now be clear to us
that the main tendency of the principle is to use physical menace for
the purpose of extorting an appearance of respect which is deemed too
difficult or superfluous to acquire in reality; a proceeding which
comes to much the same thing as if you were to prove the warmth of
your room by holding your hand on the thermometer and so make it rise.
In fact, the kernel of the matter is this: whereas civic honor aims
at peaceable intercourse, and consists in the opinion of other people
that _we deserve full confidence_, because we pay unconditional
respect to their rights; knightly honor, on the other hand, lays
down that _we are to be feared_, as being determined at all costs to
maintain our own.
As not much reliance can be placed upon human integrity, the principle
that it is more essential to arouse fear than to invite confidence
would not, perhaps, be a false one, if we were living in a state of
nature, where every man would have to protect himself and directly
maintain his own rights. But in civilized life, where the State
undertakes the protection of our person and property, the principle is
no longer applicable: it stands, like the castles and watch-towers of
the age when might was right, a useless and forlorn object, amidst
well-tilled fields and frequented roads, or even railways.
Accordingly, the application of knightly honor, which still recognizes
this principle, is confined to those small cases of personal assault
which meet with but slight punishment at the hands of the law, or even
none at all, for _de minimis non_,--mere trivial wrongs, committed
sometimes only in jest. The consequence of this limited application of
the principle is that it has forced itself into an exaggerated respect
for the value of the person,--a respect utterly alien to the nature,
constitution or destiny of man--which it has elated into a species
of sanctity: and as it considers that the State has imposed a very
insufficient penalty on the commission of such trivial injuries, it
takes upon itself to punish them by attacking the aggressor in life
or limb. The whole thing manifestly rests upon an excessive degree
of arrogant pride, which, completely forgetting what man really is,
claims that he shall be absolutely free from all attack or even
censure. Those who determine to carry out this principle by main
force, and announce, as their rule of action, _whoever insults or
strikes me shall die_! ought for their pains to be banished the
country.[1]
[Footnote 1: Knightly honor is the child of pride and folly, and it is
_needy_ not pride, which is the heritage of the human race. It is a
very remarkable fact that this extreme form of pride should be found
exclusively amongst the adherents of the religion which teaches the
deepest humility. Still, this pride must not be put down to religion,
but, rather, to the feudal system, which made every nobleman a petty
sovereign who recognized no human judge, and learned to regard his
person as sacred and inviolable, and any attack upon it, or any blow
or insulting word, as an offence punishable with death. The principle
of knightly honor and of the duel were at first confined to the
nobles, and, later on, also to officers in the army, who, enjoying a
kind of off-and-on relationship with the upper classes, though they
were never incorporated with them, were anxious not to be behind them.
It is true that duels were the product of the old ordeals; but
the latter are not the foundation, but rather the consequence and
application of the principle of honor: the man who recognized no human
judge appealed to the divine. Ordeals, however, are not peculiar to
Christendom: they may be found in great force among the Hindoos,
especially of ancient times; and there are traces of them even now.]
As a palliative to this rash arrogance, people are in the habit of
giving way on everything. If two intrepid persons meet, and neither
will give way, the slightest difference may cause a shower of abuse,
then fisticuffs, and, finally, a fatal blow: so that it would really
be a more decorous proceeding to omit the intermediate steps and
appeal to arms at once. An appeal to arms has its own special
formalities; and these have developed into a rigid and precise system
of laws and regulations, together forming the most solemn farce there
is--a regular temple of honor dedicated to folly! For if two intrepid
persons dispute over some trivial matter, (more important affairs are
dealt with by law), one of them, the cleverer of the two, will of
course yield; and they will agree to differ. That this is so is proved
by the fact that common people,--or, rather, the numerous classes of
the community who do not acknowledge the principle of knightly honor,
let any dispute run its natural course. Amongst these classes homicide
is a hundredfold rarer than amongst those--and they amount, perhaps,
in all, to hardly one in a thousand,--who pay homage to the principle:
and even blows are of no very frequent occurrence.
Then it has been said that the manners and tone of good society are
ultimately based upon this principle of honor, which, with its system
of duels, is made out to be a bulwark against the assaults of savagery
and rudeness. But Athens, Corinth and Rome could assuredly boast of
good, nay, excellent society, and manners and tone of a high order,
without any support from the bogey of knightly honor. It is true that
women did not occupy that prominent place in ancient society which
they hold now, when conversation has taken on a frivolous and
trifling character, to the exclusion of that weighty discourse which
distinguished the ancients.
This change has certainly contributed a great deal to bring about the
tendency, which is observable in good society now-a-days, to prefer
personal courage to the possession of any other quality. The fact is
that personal courage is really a very subordinate virtue,--merely the
distinguishing mark of a subaltern,--a virtue, indeed, in which we are
surpassed by the lower animals; or else you would not hear people say,
_as brave as a lion_. Far from being the pillar of society, knightly
honor affords a sure asylum, in general for dishonesty and wickedness,
and also for small incivilities, want of consideration and
unmannerliness. Rude behavior is often passed over in silence because
no one cares to risk his neck in correcting it.
After what I have said, it will not appear strange that the dueling
system is carried to the highest pitch of sanguinary zeal precisely in
that nation whose political and financial records show that they
are not too honorable. What that nation is like in its private and
domestic life, is a question which may be best put to those who are
experienced in the matter. Their urbanity and social culture have long
been conspicuous by their absence.
There is no truth, then, in such pretexts. It can be urged with more
justice that as, when you snarl at a dog, he snarls in return, and
when you pet him, he fawns; so it lies in the nature of men to return
hostility by hostility, and to be embittered and irritated at any
signs of depreciatory treatment or hatred: and, as Cicero says, _there
is something so penetrating in the shaft of envy that even men of
wisdom and worth find its wound a painful one_; and nowhere in the
world, except, perhaps, in a few religious sects, is an insult or a
blow taken with equanimity. And yet a natural view of either would
in no case demand anything more than a requital proportionate to the
offence, and would never go to the length of assigning _death_ as the
proper penalty for anyone who accuses another of lying or stupidity or
cowardice. The old German theory of _blood for a blow_ is a revolting
superstition of the age of chivalry. And in any case the return or
requital of an insult is dictated by anger, and not by any such
obligation of honor and duty as the advocates of chivalry seek to
attach to it. The fact is that, the greater the truth, the greater
the slander; and it is clear that the slightest hint of some real
delinquency will give much greater offence than a most terrible
accusation which is perfectly baseless: so that a man who is quite
sure that he has done nothing to deserve a reproach may treat it with
contempt, and will be safe in doing so. The theory of honor demands
that he shall show a susceptibility which he does not possess, and
take bloody vengeance for insults which he cannot feel. A man must
himself have but a poor opinion of his own worth who hastens to
prevent the utterance of an unfavorable opinion by giving his enemy a
black eye.
True appreciation of his own value will make a man really indifferent
to insult; but if he cannot help resenting it, a little shrewdness and
culture will enable him to save appearances and dissemble his anger.
If he could only get rid of this superstition about honor--the idea, I
mean, that it disappears when you are insulted, and can be restored by
returning the insult; if we could only stop people from thinking
that wrong, brutality and insolence can be legalized by expressing
readiness to give satisfaction, that is, to fight in defence of it,
we should all soon come to the general opinion that insult and
depreciation are like a battle in which the loser wins; and that, as
Vincenzo Monti says, abuse resembles a church-procession, because it
always returns to the point from which it set out. If we could only
get people to look upon insult in this light, we should no longer have
to say something rude in order to prove that we are in the right. Now,
unfortunately, if we want to take a serious view of any question, we
have first of all to consider whether it will not give offence in some
way or other to the dullard, who generally shows alarm and resentment
at the merest sign of intelligence; and it may easily happen that the
head which contains the intelligent view has to be pitted against the
noodle which is empty of everything but narrowness and stupidity. If
all this were done away with, intellectual superiority could take
the leading place in society which is its due--a place now occupied,
though people do not like to confess it, by excellence of physique,
mere fighting pluck, in fact; and the natural effect of such a change
would be that the best kind of people would have one reason the
less for withdrawing from society. This would pave the way for the
introduction of real courtesy and genuinely good society, such as
undoubtedly existed in Athens, Corinth and Rome. If anyone wants
to see a good example of what I mean, I should like him to read
Xenophon's _Banquet_.
The last argument in defence of knightly honor no doubt is, that,
but for its existence, the world--awful thought!--would be a regular
bear-garden. To which I may briefly reply that nine hundred and
ninety-nine people out of a thousand who do not recognize the code,
have often given and received a blow without any fatal consequences:
whereas amongst the adherents of the code a blow usually means death
to one of the parties. But let me examine this argument more closely.
I have often tried to find some tenable, or at any rate, plausible
basis--other than a merely conventional one--some positive reasons,
that is to say, for the rooted conviction which a portion of mankind
entertains, that a blow is a very dreadful thing; but I have looked
for it in vain, either in the animal or in the rational side of human
nature. A blow is, and always will be, a trivial physical injury which
one man can do to another; proving, thereby, nothing more than his
superiority in strength or skill, or that his enemy was off his guard.
Analysis will carry us no further. The same knight who regards a blow
from the human hand as the greatest of evils, if he gets a ten times
harder blow from his horse, will give you the assurance, as he limps
away in suppressed pain, that it is a matter of no consequence
whatever. So I have come to think that it is the human hand which is
at the bottom of the mischief. And yet in a battle the knight may get
cuts and thrusts from the same hand, and still assure you that his
wounds are not worth mentioning. Now, I hear that a blow from the flat
of a sword is not by any means so bad as a blow from a stick; and
that, a short time ago, cadets were liable to be punished by the one
but not the other, and that the very greatest honor of all is the
_accolade_. This is all the psychological or moral basis that I can
find; and so there is nothing left me but to pronounce the whole thing
an antiquated superstition that has taken deep root, and one more
of the many examples which show the force of tradition. My view is
confirmed by the well-known fact that in China a beating with a bamboo
is a very frequent punishment for the common people, and even for
officials of every class; which shows that human nature, even in a
highly civilized state, does not run in the same groove here and in
China.
On the contrary, an unprejudiced view of human nature shows that it is
just as natural for a man to beat as it is for savage animals to bite
and rend in pieces, or for horned beasts to butt or push. Man may be
said to be the animal that beats. Hence it is revolting to our sense
of the fitness of things to hear, as we sometimes do, that one man
bitten another; on the other hand, it is a natural and everyday
occurrence for him to get blows or give them. It is intelligible
enough that, as we become educated, we are glad to dispense with blows
by a system of mutual restraint. But it is a cruel thing to compel a
nation or a single class to regard a blow as an awful misfortune which
must have death and murder for its consequences. There are too
many genuine evils in the world to allow of our increasing them by
imaginary misfortunes, which brings real ones in their train: and yet
this is the precise effect of the superstition, which thus proves
itself at once stupid and malign.
It does not seem to me wise of governments and legislative bodies to
promote any such folly by attempting to do away with flogging as a
punishment in civil or military life. Their idea is that they are
acting in the interests of humanity; but, in point of fact, they are
doing just the opposite; for the abolition of flogging will serve only
to strengthen this inhuman and abominable superstition, to which so
many sacrifices have already been made. For all offences, except the
worst, a beating is the obvious, and therefore the natural penalty;
and a man who will not listen to reason will yield to blows. It seems
to me right and proper to administer corporal punishment to the man
who possesses nothing and therefore cannot be fined, or cannot be put
in prison because his master's interests would suffer by the loss of
his service. There are really no arguments against it: only mere talk
about _the dignity of man_--talk which proceeds, not from any clear
notions on the subject, but from the pernicious superstition I have
been describing. That it is a superstition which lies at the bottom of
the whole business is proved by an almost laughable example. Not
long ago, in the military discipline of many countries, the cat was
replaced by the stick. In either case the object was to produce
physical pain; but the latter method involved no disgrace, and was not
derogatory to honor.
By promoting this superstition, the State is playing into the hands of
the principle of knightly honor, and therefore of the duel; while at
the same time it is trying, or at any rate it pretends it is trying,
to abolish the duel by legislative enactment. As a natural consequence
we find that this fragment of the theory that _might is right_, which
has come down to us from the most savage days of the Middle Age, has
still in this nineteenth century a good deal of life left in it--more
shame to us! It is high time for the principle to be driven out bag
and baggage. Now-a-days no one is allowed to set dogs or cocks to
fight each other,--at any rate, in England it is a penal offence,--but
men are plunged into deadly strife, against their will, by the
operation of this ridiculous, superstitious and absurd principle,
which imposes upon us the obligation, as its narrow-minded supporters
and advocates declare, of fighting with one another like gladiators,
for any little trifle. Let me recommend our purists to adopt the
expression _baiting_[1] instead of _duel_, which probably comes to us,
not from the Latin _duellum_, but from the Spanish _duelo_,--meaning
suffering, nuisance, annoyance.
[Footnote 1: _Ritterhetze_]
In any case, we may well laugh at the pedantic excess to which this
foolish system has been carried. It is really revolting that this
principle, with its absurd code, can form a power within the
State--_imperium in imperio_--a power too easily put in motion, which,
recognizing no right but might, tyrannizes over the classes which come
within its range, by keeping up a sort of inquisition, before which
any one may be haled on the most flimsy pretext, and there and then be
tried on an issue of life and death between himself and his opponent.
This is the lurking place from which every rascal, if he only belongs
to the classes in question, may menace and even exterminate the
noblest and best of men, who, as such, must of course be an object of
hatred to him. Our system of justice and police-protection has made it
impossible in these days for any scoundrel in the street to attack us
with--_Your money or your life_! An end should be put to the burden
which weighs upon the higher classes--the burden, I mean, of having to
be ready every moment to expose life and limb to the mercy of anyone
who takes it into his rascally head to be coarse, rude, foolish or
malicious. It is perfectly atrocious that a pair of silly, passionate
boys should be wounded, maimed or even killed, simply because they
have had a few words.
The strength of this tyrannical power within the State, and the force
of the superstition, may be measured by the fact that people who are
prevented from restoring their knightly honor by the superior or
inferior rank of their aggressor, or anything else that puts the
persons on a different level, often come to a tragic-comic end by
committing suicide in sheer despair. You may generally know a thing
to be false and ridiculous by finding that, if it is carried to its
logical conclusion, it results in a contradiction; and here, too, we
have a very glaring absurdity. For an officer is forbidden to take
part in a duel; but if he is challenged and declines to come out, he
is punished by being dismissed the service.
As I am on the matter, let me be more frank still. The important
distinction, which is often insisted upon, between killing your enemy
in a fair fight with equal weapons, and lying in ambush for him, is
entirely a corollary of the fact that the power within the State, of
which I have spoken, recognizes no other right than might, that is,
the right of the stronger, and appeals to a _Judgment of God_ as the
basis of the whole code. For to kill a man in a fair fight, is to
prove that you are superior to him in strength or skill; and to
justify the deed, _you must assume that the right of the stronger is
really a right_.
But the truth is that, if my opponent is unable to defend himself, it
gives me the possibility, but not by any means the right, of killing
him. The _right_, the _moral justification_, must depend entirely upon
the _motives_ which I have for taking his life. Even supposing that I
have sufficient motive for taking a man's life, there is no reason
why I should make his death depend upon whether I can shoot or fence
better than he. In such a case, it is immaterial in what way I kill
him, whether I attack him from the front or the rear. From a moral
point of view, the right of the stronger is no more convincing than
the right of the more skillful; and it is skill which is employed if
you murder a a man treacherously. Might and skill are in this case
equally right; in a duel, for instance, both the one and the other
come into play; for a feint is only another name for treachery. If I
consider myself morally justified in taking a man's life, it is stupid
of me to try first of all whether he can shoot or fence better than
I; as, if he can, he will not only have wronged me, but have taken my
life into the bargain.
It is Rousseau's opinion that the proper way to avenge an insult is,
not to fight a duel with your aggressor, but to assassinate him,--an
opinion, however, which he is cautious enough only to barely indicate
in a mysterious note to one of the books of his _Emile_. This shows
the philosopher so completely under the influence of the mediaeval
superstition of knightly honor that he considers it justifiable to
murder a man who accuses you of lying: whilst he must have known that
every man, and himself especially, has deserved to have the lie given
him times without number.
The prejudice which justifies the killing of your adversary, so long
as it is done in an open contest and with equal weapons, obviously
looks upon might as really right, and a duel as the interference of
God. The Italian who, in a fit of rage, falls upon his aggressor
wherever he finds him, and despatches him without any ceremony, acts,
at any rate, consistently and naturally: he may be cleverer, but he is
not worse, than the duelist. If you say, I am justified in killing my
adversary in a duel, because he is at the moment doing his best to
kill me; I can reply that it is your challenge which has placed him
under the necessity of defending himself; and that by mutually putting
it on the ground of self-defence, the combatants are seeking a
plausible pretext for committing murder. I should rather justify the
deed by the legal maxim _Volenti non fit injuria_; because the parties
mutually agree to set their life upon the issue.
This argument may, however, be rebutted by showing that the injured
party is not injured _volens_; because it is this tyrannical principle
of knightly honor, with its absurd code, which forcibly drags one at
least of the combatants before a bloody inquisition.
I have been rather prolix on the subject of knightly honor, but I
had good reason for being so, because the Augean stable of moral and
intellectual enormity in this world can be cleaned out only with the
besom of philosophy. There are two things which more than all
else serve to make the social arrangements of modern life compare
unfavorably with those of antiquity, by giving our age a gloomy, dark
and sinister aspect, from which antiquity, fresh, natural and, as it
were, in the morning of life, is completely free; I mean modern honor
and modern disease,--_par nobile fratrum_!--which have combined to
poison all the relations of life, whether public or private. The
second of this noble pair extends its influence much farther than at
first appears to be the case, as being not merely a physical, but also
a moral disease. From the time that poisoned arrows have been found
in Cupid's quiver, an estranging, hostile, nay, devilish element has
entered into the relations of men and women, like a sinister thread
of fear and mistrust in the warp and woof of their intercourse;
indirectly shaking the foundations of human fellowship, and so more or
less affecting the whole tenor of existence. But it would be beside my
present purpose to pursue the subject further.
An influence analogous to this, though working on other lines, is
exerted by the principle of knightly honor,--that solemn farce,
unknown to the ancient world, which makes modern society stiff, gloomy
and timid, forcing us to keep the strictest watch on every word that
falls. Nor is this all. The principle is a universal Minotaur; and the
goodly company of the sons of noble houses which it demands in yearly
tribute, comes, not from one country alone, as of old, but from every
land in Europe. It is high time to make a regular attack upon this
foolish system; and this is what I am trying to do now. Would that
these two monsters of the modern world might disappear before the end
of the century!
Let us hope that medicine may be able to find some means of preventing
the one, and that, by clearing our ideals, philosophy may put an end
to the other: for it is only by clearing our ideas that the evil can
be eradicated. Governments have tried to do so by legislation, and
failed.
Still, if they are really concerned to stop the dueling system; and if
the small success that has attended their efforts is really due only
to their inability to cope with the evil, I do not mind proposing a
law the success of which I am prepared to guarantee. It will involve
no sanguinary measures, and can be put into operation without recourse
either to the scaffold or the gallows, or to imprisonment for life. It
is a small homeopathic pilule, with no serious after effects. If any
man send or accept a challenge, let the corporal take him before the
guard house, and there give him, in broad daylight, twelve strokes
with a stick _a la Chinoise_; a non-commissioned officer or a private
to receive six. If a duel has actually taken place, the usual criminal
proceedings should be instituted.
A person with knightly notions might, perhaps, object that, if such
a punishment were carried out, a man of honor would possibly shoot
himself; to which I should answer that it is better for a fool like
that to shoot himself rather than other people. However, I know very
well that governments are not really in earnest about putting down
dueling. Civil officials, and much more so, officers in the army,
(except those in the highest positions), are paid most inadequately
for the services they perform; and the deficiency is made up by honor,
which is represented by titles and orders, and, in general, by the
system of rank and distinction. The duel is, so to speak, a very
serviceable extra-horse for people of rank: so they are trained in the
knowledge of it at the universities. The accidents which happen to
those who use it make up in blood for the deficiency of the pay.
Just to complete the discussion, let me here mention the subject
of _national honor_. It is the honor of a nation as a unit in the
aggregate of nations. And as there is no court to appeal to but the
court of force; and as every nation must be prepared to defend its own
interests, the honor of a nation consists in establishing the opinion,
not only that it may be trusted (its credit), but also that it is to
be feared. An attack upon its rights must never be allowed to pass
unheeded. It is a combination of civic and knightly honor.
_Section 5.--Fame_.
Under the heading of place in the estimation of the world we have put
_Fame_; and this we must now proceed to consider.
Fame and honor are twins; and twins, too, like Castor and Pollux, of
whom the one was mortal and the other was not. Fame is the undying
brother of ephemeral honor. I speak, of course, of the highest kind of
fame, that is, of fame in the true and genuine sense of the word; for,
to be sure, there are many sorts of fame, some of which last but a
day. Honor is concerned merely with such qualities as everyone may be
expected to show under similar circumstances; fame only of those which
cannot be required of any man. Honor is of qualities which everyone
has a right to attribute to himself; fame only of those which should
be left to others to attribute. Whilst our honor extends as far as
people have knowledge of us; fame runs in advance, and makes us known
wherever it finds its way. Everyone can make a claim to honor; very
few to fame, as being attainable only in virtue of extraordinary
achievements.
These achievements may be of two kinds, either _actions_ or _works_;
and so to fame there are two paths open. On the path of actions, a
great heart is the chief recommendation; on that of works, a great
head. Each of the two paths has its own peculiar advantages and
detriments; and the chief difference between them is that actions are
fleeting, while works remain. The influence of an action, be it never
so noble, can last but a short time; but a work of genius is a living
influence, beneficial and ennobling throughout the ages. All that can
remain of actions is a memory, and that becomes weak and disfigured by
time--a matter of indifference to us, until at last it is extinguished
altogether; unless, indeed, history takes it up, and presents it,
fossilized, to posterity. Works are immortal in themselves, and once
committed to writing, may live for ever. Of Alexander the Great we
have but the name and the record; but Plato and Aristotle, Homer and
Horace are alive, and as directly at work to-day as they were in their
own lifetime. The _Vedas_, and their _Upanishads_, are still with us:
but of all contemporaneous actions not a trace has come down to us.[1]
[Footnote 1: Accordingly it is a poor compliment, though sometimes
a fashionable one, to try to pay honor to a work by calling it an
action. For a work is something essentially higher in its nature.
An action is always something based on motive, and, therefore,
fragmentary and fleeting--a part, in fact, of that Will which is the
universal and original element in the constitution of the world. But
a great and beautiful work has a permanent character, as being of
universal significance, and sprung from the Intellect, which rises,
like a perfume, above the faults and follies of the world of Will.
The fame of a great action has this advantage, that it generally
starts with a loud explosion; so loud, indeed, as to be heard all over
Europe: whereas the fame of a great work is slow and gradual in its
beginnings; the noise it makes is at first slight, but it goes on
growing greater, until at last, after a hundred years perhaps, it
attains its full force; but then it remains, because the works
remain, for thousands of years. But in the other case, when the first
explosion is over, the noise it makes grows less and less, and is
heard by fewer and fewer persons; until it ends by the action having
only a shadowy existence in the pages of history.]
Another disadvantage under which actions labor is that they depend
upon chance for the possibility of coming into existence; and hence,
the fame they win does not flow entirely from their intrinsic value,
but also from the circumstances which happened to lend them importance
and lustre. Again, the fame of actions, if, as in war, they are purely
personal, depends upon the testimony of fewer witnesses; and these
are not always present, and even if present, are not always just or
unbiased observers. This disadvantage, however, is counterbalanced
by the fact that actions have the advantage of being of a practical
character, and, therefore, within the range of general human
intelligence; so that once the facts have been correctly reported,
justice is immediately done; unless, indeed, the motive underlying the
action is not at first properly understood or appreciated. No action
can be really understood apart from the motive which prompted it.
It is just the contrary with works. Their inception does not depend
upon chance, but wholly and entirely upon their author; and whoever
they are in and for themselves, that they remain as long as they live.
Further, there is a difficulty in properly judging them, which becomes
all the harder, the higher their character; often there are no persons
competent to understand the work, and often no unbiased or honest
critics. Their fame, however, does not depend upon one judge only;
they can enter an appeal to another. In the case of actions, as I have
said, it is only their memory which comes down to posterity, and then
only in the traditional form; but works are handed down themselves,
and, except when parts of them have been lost, in the form in
which they first appeared. In this case there is no room for any
disfigurement of the facts; and any circumstance which may have
prejudiced them in their origin, fall away with the lapse of time.
Nay, it is often only after the lapse of time that the persons really
competent to judge them appear--exceptional critics sitting in
judgment on exceptional works, and giving their weighty verdicts in
succession. These collectively form a perfectly just appreciation; and
though there are cases where it has taken some hundreds of years to
form it, no further lapse of time is able to reverse the verdict;--so
secure and inevitable is the fame of a great work.
Whether authors ever live to see the dawn of their fame depends upon
the chance of circumstance; and the higher and more important their
works are, the less likelihood there is of their doing so. That was
an incomparable fine saying of Seneca's, that fame follows merit as
surely as the body casts a shadow; sometimes falling in front, and
sometimes behind. And he goes on to remark that _though the envy of
contemporaries be shown by universal silence, there will come those
who will judge without enmity or favor_. From this remark it is
manifest that even in Seneca's age there were rascals who understood
the art of suppressing merit by maliciously ignoring its existence,
and of concealing good work from the public in order to favor the bad:
it is an art well understood in our day, too, manifesting itself, both
then and now, in _an envious conspiracy of silence_.
As a general rule, the longer a man's fame is likely to last, the
later it will be in coming; for all excellent products require time
for their development. The fame which lasts to posterity is like an
oak, of very slow growth; and that which endures but a little while,
like plants which spring up in a year and then die; whilst false fame
is like a fungus, shooting up in a night and perishing as soon.
And why? For this reason; the more a man belongs to posterity, in
other words, to humanity in general, the more of an alien he is to his
contemporaries; since his work is not meant for them as such, but only
for them in so far as they form part of mankind at large; there is
none of that familiar local color about his productions which would
appeal to them; and so what he does, fails of recognition because it
is strange.
People are more likely to appreciate the man who serves the
circumstances of his own brief hour, or the temper of the
moment,--belonging to it, living and dying with it.
The general history of art and literature shows that the highest
achievements of the human mind are, as a rule, not favorably received
at first; but remain in obscurity until they win notice from
intelligence of a high order, by whose influence they are brought into
a position which they then maintain, in virtue of the authority thus
given them.
If the reason of this should be asked, it will be found that
ultimately, a man can really understand and appreciate those things
only which are of like nature with himself. The dull person will like
what is dull, and the common person what is common; a man whose ideas
are mixed will be attracted by confusion of thought; and folly will
appeal to him who has no brains at all; but best of all, a man will
like his own works, as being of a character thoroughly at one with
himself. This is a truth as old as Epicharmus of fabulous memory--
[Greek: Thaumaston ouden esti me tauth outo legein
Kal andanein autoisin autous kal dokein
Kalos pethukenai kal gar ho kuon kuni
Kalloton eimen phainetai koi bous boi
Onos dono kalliston [estin], us dut.]
The sense of this passage--for it should not be lost--is that we
should not be surprised if people are pleased with themselves, and
fancy that they are in good case; for to a dog the best thing in the
world is a dog; to an ox, an ox; to an ass, an ass; and to a sow, a
sow.
The strongest arm is unavailing to give impetus to a featherweight;
for, instead of speeding on its way and hitting its mark with effect,
it will soon fall to the ground, having expended what little energy
was given to it, and possessing no mass of its own to be the vehicle
of momentum. So it is with great and noble thoughts, nay, with the
very masterpieces of genius, when there are none but little, weak, and
perverse minds to appreciate them,--a fact which has been deplored
by a chorus of the wise in all ages. Jesus, the son of Sirach, for
instance, declares that _He that telleth a tale to a fool speaketh to
one in slumber: when he hath told his tale, he will say, What is the
matter_?[1] And Hamlet says, _A knavish speech sleeps in a fool's
ear_.[2] And Goethe is of the same opinion, that a dull ear mocks at
the wisest word,
_Das glücktichste Wort es wird verhöhnt,
Wenn der Hörer ein Schiefohr ist_:
and again, that we should not be discouraged if people are stupid, for
you can make no rings if you throw your stone into a marsh.
_Du iwirkest nicht, Alles bleibt so stumpf:
Sei guter Dinge!
Der Stein in Sumpf
Macht keine Ringe_.
[Footnote 1: Ecclesiasticus, xxii., 8.]
[Footnote 2: Act iv., Sc. 2.]
Lichtenberg asks: _When a head and a book come into collision, and one
sounds hollow, is it always the book_? And in another place: _Works
like this are as a mirror; if an ass looks in, you cannot expect an
apostle to look out_. We should do well to remember old Gellert's
fine and touching lament, that the best gifts of all find the fewest
admirers, and that most men mistake the bad for the good,--a daily
evil that nothing can prevent, like a plague which no remedy can cure.
There is but one thing to be done, though how difficult!--the foolish
must become wise,--and that they can never be. The value of life they
never know; they see with the outer eye but never with the mind, and
praise the trivial because the good is strange to them:--
_Nie kennen sie den Werth der Dinge,
Ihr Auge schliesst, nicht ihr Verstand;
Sie loben ewig das Geringe
Weil sie das Gute nie gekannt_.
To the intellectual incapacity which, as Goethe says, fails to
recognize and appreciate the good which exists, must be added
something which comes into play everywhere, the moral baseness of
mankind, here taking the form of envy. The new fame that a man wins
raises him afresh over the heads of his fellows, who are thus degraded
in proportion. All conspicuous merit is obtained at the cost of those
who possess none; or, as Goethe has it in the _Westöstlicher Divan_,
another's praise is one's own depreciation--
_Wenn wir Andern Ehre geben
Müssen wir uns selbst entadeln_.
We see, then, how it is that, whatever be the form which excellence
takes, mediocrity, the common lot of by far the greatest number, is
leagued against it in a conspiracy to resist, and if possible, to
suppress it. The pass-word of this league is _à bas le mérite_. Nay
more; those who have done something themselves, and enjoy a certain
amount of fame, do not care about the appearance of a new reputation,
because its success is apt to throw theirs into the shade. Hence,
Goethe declares that if we had to depend for our life upon the favor
of others, we should never have lived at all; from their desire
to appear important themselves, people gladly ignore our very
existence:--
_Hätte ich gezaudert zu werden,
Bis man mir's Leben geögnut,
Ich wäre noch nicht auf Erden,
Wie ihr begreifen könnt,
Wenn ihr seht, wie sie sich geberden,
Die, um etwas zu scheinen,
Mich gerne mochten verneinen_.
Honor, on the contrary, generally meets with fair appreciation, and is
not exposed to the onslaught of envy; nay, every man is credited with
the possession of it until the contrary is proved. But fame has to be
won in despite of envy, and the tribunal which awards the laurel is
composed of judges biased against the applicant from the very first.
Honor is something which we are able and ready to share with everyone;
fame suffers encroachment and is rendered more unattainable in
proportion as more people come by it. Further, the difficulty of
winning fame by any given work stands in reverse ratio to the number
of people who are likely to read it; and hence it is so much harder
to become famous as the author of a learned work than as a writer
who aspires only to amuse. It is hardest of all in the case of
philosophical works, because the result at which they aim is rather
vague, and, at the same time, useless from a material point of view;
they appeal chiefly to readers who are working on the same lines
themselves.
It is clear, then, from what I have said as to the difficulty of
winning fame, that those who labor, not out of love for their subject,
nor from pleasure in pursuing it, but under the stimulus of ambition,
rarely or never leave mankind a legacy of immortal works. The man who
seeks to do what is good and genuine, must avoid what is bad, and be
ready to defy the opinions of the mob, nay, even to despise it and its
misleaders. Hence the truth of the remark, (especially insisted upon
by Osorius _de Gloria_), that fame shuns those who seek it, and seeks
those who shun it; for the one adapt themselves to the taste of their
contemporaries, and the others work in defiance of it.
But, difficult though it be to acquire fame, it is an easy thing to
keep when once acquired. Here, again, fame is in direct opposition to
honor, with which everyone is presumably to be accredited. Honor
has not to be won; it must only not be lost. But there lies the
difficulty! For by a single unworthy action, it is gone irretrievably.
But fame, in the proper sense of the word, can never disappear; for
the action or work by which it was acquired can never be undone; and
fame attaches to its author, even though he does nothing to deserve it
anew. The fame which vanishes, or is outlived, proves itself thereby
to be spurious, in other words, unmerited, and due to a momentary
overestimate of a man's work; not to speak of the kind of fame which
Hegel enjoyed, and which Lichtenberg describes as _trumpeted forth by
a clique of admiring undergraduates_--_the resounding echo of empty
heads_;--_such a fame as will make posterity smile when it lights upon
a grotesque architecture of words, a fine nest with the birds long
ago flown; it will knock at the door of this decayed structure of
conventionalities and find it utterly empty_!--_not even a trace of
thought there to invite the passer-by_.
The truth is that fame means nothing but what a man is in comparison
with others. It is essentially relative in character, and therefore
only indirectly valuable; for it vanishes the moment other people
become what the famous man is. Absolute value can be predicated only
of what a man possesses under any and all circumstances,--here, what a
man is directly and in himself. It is the possession of a great heart
or a great head, and not the mere fame of it, which is worth having,
and conducive to happiness. Not fame, but that which deserves to be
famous, is what a man should hold in esteem. This is, as it were, the
true underlying substance, and fame is only an accident, affecting its
subject chiefly as a kind of external symptom, which serves to confirm
his own opinion of himself. Light is not visible unless it meets with
something to reflect it; and talent is sure of itself only when its
fame is noised abroad. But fame is not a certain symptom of merit;
because you can have the one without the other; or, as Lessing nicely
puts it, _Some people obtain fame, and others deserve it_.
It would be a miserable existence which should make its value or want
of value depend upon what other people think; but such would be the
life of a hero or a genius if its worth consisted in fame, that is,
in the applause of the world. Every man lives and exists on his own
account, and, therefore, mainly in and for himself; and what he is and
the whole manner of his being concern himself more than anyone else;
so if he is not worth much in this respect, he cannot be worth much
otherwise. The idea which other people form of his existence is
something secondary, derivative, exposed to all the chances of fate,
and in the end affecting him but very indirectly. Besides, other
people's heads are a wretched place to be the home of a man's true
happiness--a fanciful happiness perhaps, but not a real one.
And what a mixed company inhabits the Temple of Universal
Fame!--generals, ministers, charlatans, jugglers, dancers, singers,
millionaires and Jews! It is a temple in which more sincere
recognition, more genuine esteem, is given to the several excellencies
of such folk, than to superiority of mind, even of a high order, which
obtains from the great majority only a verbal acknowledgment.
From the point of view of human happiness, fame is, surely, nothing
but a very rare and delicate morsel for the appetite that feeds on
pride and vanity--an appetite which, however carefully concealed,
exists to an immoderate degree in every man, and is, perhaps strongest
of all in those who set their hearts on becoming famous at any cost.
Such people generally have to wait some time in uncertainty as to
their own value, before the opportunity comes which will put it to the
proof and let other people see what they are made of; but until then,
they feel as if they were suffering secret injustice.[1]
[Footnote 1: Our greatest pleasure consists in being admired; but
those who admire us, even if they have every reason to do so, are slow
to express their sentiments. Hence he is the happiest man who, no
matter how, manages sincerely to admire himself--so long as other
people leave him alone.]
But, as I explained at the beginning of this chapter, an
unreasonable value is set upon other people's opinion, and one quite
disproportionate to its real worth. Hobbes has some strong remarks on
this subject; and no doubt he is quite right. _Mental pleasure_, he
writes, _and ecstacy of any kind, arise when, on comparing ourselves
with others, we come to the conclusion that we may think well of
ourselves_. So we can easily understand the great value which is
always attached to fame, as worth any sacrifices if there is the
slightest hope of attaining it.
_Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise_
_(That hath infirmity of noble mind)_
_To scorn delights and live laborious days_[1]
And again:
_How hard it is to climb
The heights where Fame's proud temple shines afar_!
[Footnote 1: Milton. _Lycidas_.]
We can thus understand how it is that the vainest people in the world
are always talking about _la gloire_, with the most implicit faith in
it as a stimulus to great actions and great works. But there can he no
doubt that fame is something secondary in its character, a mere echo
or reflection--as it were, a shadow or symptom--of merit: and, in
any case, what excites admiration must be of more value than the
admiration itself. The truth is that a man is made happy, not by fame,
but by that which brings him fame, by his merits, or to speak more
correctly, by the disposition and capacity from which his merits
proceed, whether they be moral or intellectual. The best side of a
man's nature must of necessity be more important for him than for
anyone else: the reflection of it, the opinion which exists in the
heads of others, is a matter that can affect him only in a very
subordinate degree. He who deserves fame without getting it possesses
by far the more important element of happiness, which should console
him for the loss of the other. It is not that a man is thought to be
great by masses of incompetent and often infatuated people, but that
he really is great, which should move us to envy his position; and his
happiness lies, not in the fact that posterity will hear of him, but
that he is the creator of thoughts worthy to be treasured up and
studied for hundreds of years.
Besides, if a man has done this, he possesses something which cannot
be wrested from him; and, unlike fame, it is a possession dependent
entirely upon himself. If admiration were his chief aim, there would
be nothing in him to admire. This is just what happens in the case
of false, that is, unmerited, fame; for its recipient lives upon it
without actually possessing the solid substratum of which fame is the
outward and visible sign. False fame must often put its possessor out
of conceit with himself; for the time may come when, in spite of the
illusions borne of self-love, he will feel giddy on the heights which
he was never meant to climb, or look upon himself as spurious
coin; and in the anguish of threatened discovery and well-merited
degradation, he will read the sentence of posterity on the foreheads
of the wise--like a man who owes his property to a forged will.
The truest fame, the fame that comes after death, is never heard of by
its recipient; and yet he is called a happy man.
His happiness lay both in the possession of those great qualities
which won him fame, and in the opportunity that was granted him of
developing them--the leisure he had to act as he pleased, to dedicate
himself to his favorite pursuits. It is only work done from the heart
that ever gains the laurel.
Greatness of soul, or wealth of intellect, is what makes a man
happy--intellect, such as, when stamped on its productions, will
receive the admiration of centuries to come,--thoughts which make him
happy at the time, and will in their turn be a source of study and
delight to the noblest minds of the most remote posterity. The value
of posthumous fame lies in deserving it; and this is its own reward.
Whether works destined to fame attain it in the lifetime of their
author is a chance affair, of no very great importance. For the
average man has no critical power of his own, and is absolutely
incapable of appreciating the difficulty of a great work. People are
always swayed by authority; and where fame is widespread, it means
that ninety-nine out of a hundred take it on faith alone. If a man is
famed far and wide in his own lifetime, he will, if he is wise, not
set too much value upon it, because it is no more than the echo of a
few voices, which the chance of a day has touched in his favor.
Would a musician feel flattered by the loud applause of an audience
if he knew that they were nearly all deaf, and that, to conceal their
infirmity, they set to work to clap vigorously as soon as ever they
saw one or two persons applauding? And what would he say if he got to
know that those one or two persons had often taken bribes to secure
the loudest applause for the poorest player!
It is easy to see why contemporary praise so seldom develops into
posthumous fame. D'Alembert, in an extremely fine description of the
temple of literary fame, remarks that the sanctuary of the temple is
inhabited by the great dead, who during their life had no place there,
and by a very few living persons, who are nearly all ejected on their
death. Let me remark, in passing, that to erect a monument to a man
in his lifetime is as much as declaring that posterity is not to be
trusted in its judgment of him. If a man does happen to see his own
true fame, it can very rarely be before he is old, though there have
been artists and musicians who have been exceptions to this rule, but
very few philosophers. This is confirmed by the portraits of people
celebrated by their works; for most of them are taken only after their
subjects have attained celebrity, generally depicting them as old and
grey; more especially if philosophy has been the work of their lives.
From the eudaemonistic standpoint, this is a very proper arrangement;
as fame and youth are too much for a mortal at one and the same time.
Life is such a poor business that the strictest economy must be
exercised in its good things. Youth has enough and to spare in itself,
and must rest content with what it has. But when the delights and joys
of life fall away in old age, as the leaves from a tree in autumn,
fame buds forth opportunely, like a plant that is green in winter.
Fame is, as it were, the fruit that must grow all the summer before it
can be enjoyed at Yule. There is no greater consolation in age than
the feeling of having put the whole force of one's youth into works
which still remain young.
Finally, let us examine a little more closely the kinds of fame which
attach to various intellectual pursuits; for it is with fame of this
sort that my remarks are more immediately concerned.
I think it may be said broadly that the intellectual superiority it
denotes consists in forming theories, that is, new combinations of
certain facts. These facts may be of very different kinds; but
the better they are known, and the more they come within everyday
experience, the greater and wider will be the fame which is to be won
by theorizing about them.
For instance, if the facts in question are numbers or lines or special
branches of science, such as physics, zoology, botany, anatomy, or
corrupt passages in ancient authors, or undecipherable inscriptions,
written, it may be, in some unknown alphabet, or obscure points
in history; the kind of fame that may be obtained by correctly
manipulating such facts will not extend much beyond those who make a
study of them--a small number of persons, most of whom live retired
lives and are envious of others who become famous in their special
branch of knowledge.
But if the facts be such as are known to everyone, for example, the
fundamental characteristics of the human mind or the human heart,
which are shared by all alike; or the great physical agencies which
are constantly in operation before our eyes, or the general course of
natural laws; the kind of fame which is to be won by spreading the
light of a new and manifestly true theory in regard to them, is such
as in time will extend almost all over the civilized world: for if the
facts be such as everyone can grasp, the theory also will be generally
intelligible. But the extent of the fame will depend upon the
difficulties overcome; and the more generally known the facts are, the
harder it will be to form a theory that shall be both new and true:
because a great many heads will have been occupied with them, and
there will be little or no possibility of saying anything that has not
been said before.
On the other hand, facts which are not accessible to everybody, and
can be got at only after much difficulty and labor, nearly
always admit of new combinations and theories; so that, if sound
understanding and judgment are brought to bear upon them--qualities
which do not involve very high intellectual power--a man may easily be
so fortunate as to light upon some new theory in regard to them which
shall be also true. But fame won on such paths does not extend much
beyond those who possess a knowledge of the facts in question. To
solve problems of this sort requires, no doubt, a great ideal of study
and labor, if only to get at the facts; whilst on the path where the
greatest and most widespread fame is to be won, the facts may be
grasped without any labor at all. But just in proportion as less labor
is necessary, more talent or genius is required; and between such
qualities and the drudgery of research no comparison is possible, in
respect either of their intrinsic value, or of the estimation in which
they are held.
And so people who feel that they possess solid intellectual capacity
and a sound judgment, and yet cannot claim the highest mental powers,
should not be afraid of laborious study; for by its aid they may
work themselves above the great mob of humanity who have the facts
constantly before their eyes, and reach those secluded spots which are
accessible to learned toil.
For this is a sphere where there are infinitely fewer rivals, and
a man of only moderate capacity may soon find an opportunity of
proclaiming a theory which shall be both new and true; nay, the merit
of his discovery will partly rest upon the difficulty of coming at
the facts. But applause from one's fellow-students, who are the only
persons with a knowledge of the subject, sounds very faint to the
far-off multitude. And if we follow up this sort of fame far enough,
we shall at last come to a point where facts very difficult to get at
are in themselves sufficient to lay a foundation of fame, without any
necessity for forming a theory;--travels, for instance, in remote and
little-known countries, which make a man famous by what he has seen,
not by what he has thought. The great advantage of this kind of fame
is that to relate what one has seen, is much easier than to impart
one's thoughts, and people are apt to understand descriptions better
than ideas, reading the one more readily than the other: for, as Asmus
says,
_When one goes forth a-voyaging
He has a tale to tell_.
And yet for all that, a personal acquaintance with celebrated
travelers often remind us of a line from Horace--new scenes do not
always mean new ideas--
_Caelum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt_.[1]
[Footnote 1: Epist. I. II.]
But if a man finds himself in possession of great mental faculties,
such as alone should venture on the solution of the hardest of all
problems--those which concern nature as a whole and humanity in its
widest range, he will do well to extend his view equally in all
directions, without ever straying too far amid the intricacies of
various by-paths, or invading regions little known; in other words,
without occupying himself with special branches of knowledge, to say
nothing of their petty details. There is no necessity for him to
seek out subjects difficult of access, in order to escape a crowd of
rivals; the common objects of life will give him material for new
theories at once serious and true; and the service he renders will be
appreciated by all those--and they form a great part of mankind--who
know the facts of which he treats. What a vast distinction there is
between students of physics, chemistry, anatomy, mineralogy, zoology,
philology, history, and the men who deal with the great facts of human
life, the poet and the philosopher!